“Oh, he wants some more!” cried his little master, thereupon feeding him from his own piece. And Caruso thanked him with a song—the first in many days.
CHAPTER IX
THOMAS FITZPATRICK’S WHISTLE
The gravity of the strike situation increased. There was small prospect of immediate yielding on either side. A few turbulent strikers blustered and threatened, secret mass meetings were held, and whispers of ugly times ahead ran through The Flatiron. Mrs. Stickney did not place much faith in these rumors, yet they added to her restlessness, and she redoubled her efforts to find work.
Blue walked the streets out of school hours, searching for a job; but with the throngs of unemployed, many bent on the same business, he stood only a chance with hundreds. His extra earnings grew lighter, and the home purse correspondingly thin. The bird’s food box was empty, and insects, dead or alive, were scarce. The mother dealt out rations with a sparing hand, and nobody asked for more. Finally came a day, the day that had been feared, when purse and pantry fell to the rank of Caruso’s box, and the breakfast table showed only a bowl of baked bean soup.
The boys waited at their plates, Mrs. Stickney pottering about the stove.
“Better hurry!” urged Blue. “It’ll get cold.”
“You eat it all; I don’t want any breakfast.”
“Not much!” declared the boy. “We’re going to wait till you come.”
“Course we are,” Doodles agreed.